#sister cities: vermillion falls

[theribthatgrewback]

THIS PROBABLY DOESNT MEAN ANYTHING BUT. the name of the restaurant where kevin and charles had their first date was vermillion.....

(here is how charles this year can still win)

[ceaselessbasher]

LET GEORGE NORTH BECOME A WOLFMAN

[agnes-come-back-challenge]

which peaceful town is this and is this leonard burton

[juneofbones]

Vermillion Falls intrigues me beyond words. Frank Luna has my whole heart, of course, and I’m hoping we hear from him again, but I’m wondering what a sister city with similar supernatural elements means for the story going forwards.

[this-is-a-podcast-fanblog]

Sister Cities: Night Vale (Welcome to Vermillion Falls)

A friendly desert community where the sun is bright, the stars have forsaken us, and the moon is a lie. Welcome to Night Vale.

Good evening, Vermillion Falls! Wow, it's been so long since I last spoke to all of you. I think it was... 2014? 2015, maybe? And I don't know when the last time before then would have been. What a wonderful time it is that we get to participate in this tradition once again. Well anyway, for those of you hearing me for the first time, my name is Cecil Gerswhin Palmer, and I am the community radio host of the beautiful town of Night Vale! In case you didn't know, we are your sister city! You'll never meet us, and we'll never meet you if you know what's good for you, but we are united nonetheless by the ties of family. And what could be stronger than that?

Speaking of family, Vermillion Falls, I'm sure you all remember the guy I was telling you about last time I was on the air - Carlos the Scientist. He is a beautiful man with beautiful hair and an oaky voice, who conducts scientific experiments in his lab by Big Rico's Pizza, and he is utterly perfect in every single imperfect way. The last time I spoke to you, Carlos was my boyfriend, and he had recently returned from being trapped in a desert otherworld. Well - then, Carlos and I have gotten *married*! Isn't that the most wonderful news? Isn't that the most fascinating piece of journalism ever to cross your ears? We had our ceremony on the 15th of December, in 2016, at -

Oh, hang on, Vermillion Falls. I've just been handed a press release by my newest intern, Safa. Safa, should I even be reading Night Vale news, if the people of my community aren't going to hear it? Oh well. I guess it can't hurt. More about my husband soon.

But first, a message from the Night Vale Interfaith Crochet Club and Political Activism Coalition. As many of you know, this group advocates for the recognition of crochet into popular culture, as both an artform and a really cool hobby. "We want everyone to know that regardless of what you believe in, we can all get behind making cool stuff out of yarn" said Robin, who is one of the coalition's organizers, and also a priest at the Temple of Hekate out in the sand wastes. "First, you chain to the desired length. Then, you either go back into the second loop from the hook, or you chain extra and yarn over. Then, you repeat your actions to make various stitches. It's great." The Night Vale Interfaith Crochet Club and Political Activism Coalition would like to invite you to their meetings. You can find them every other Wednesday night from 5:01 to 6:07:32, with locations announced every week on their Instagram page. Crochet materials and political pamphlets will be provided. When asked by a member of the press whether knitters would be welcome at the coalition's meetings, Robin hissed, then threw down zir skein of yarn, then vanished into a puff of vapor. So maybe don't attend the meetings if you like to knit.

This has been: a press release.

Okay, listeners, back to talking about my husband. So, Carlos and I had our ceremony on the 15th of December in 2016, and it's honestly hard to believe that that was almost seven years ago already. It feels like yesterday that my beautiful Carlos walked down the aisle towards me, his face all alight with the love we share as we wed in front of our entire town! And now, we have a beautiful baby boy who we adopted. Although I guess he isn't really a baby anymore, since he's about to turn six. Our sweet Esteban is the joy of our lives, and he takes so well after both his fathers. He started talking at eighteen months, but not in the usual baby-babble way. His first word was "I", followed by the words "desire destruction should follow in my wake, and also I would like another Gerber pouch, please." Carlos and I were so proud of him. How many children have a complete sentence at the same time as their first word? Do you know any children like that, Vermillion Falls? Of course not. My Esteban is a truly remarkable child, completely one of a kind. He loves giraffes and other animals, and he also loves to throw tantrums where he hurls his toys around the room and screams at the sky. When that happens, Carlos has to pick him up and rock him back and forth singing "Valjean's Soliloquy" from Les Miserables until he calms down. And it works every time. I'm so happy with my family. I was texting your radio host, Frank Luna, in our town voice group chat, and I sent him so many pictures of my husband. Like this one, where -

Ughhhh, another press release? Safa, I'm doing extremely important work here. I know this is only your first day, but usually press releases are supposed to be spaced out more, and I just did one! No, I totally did. Um, you might think I've been rambling about my family for a really long time, but time is subjective, and I am the station manager here. Okay, fine. Let's see what we've got.

The Night Vale Board of Education would like to announce an update to all their dictionaries. Effective immediately, they will be changing science curriculums to include "guilt" as a step in the scientific method. "Just take a moment to ponder what you're doing," said Director of Emergency Press Conferences Pamela Winchell, who wore a Jurassic Park Hoodie. "And think about whether it's really worth it, whatever 'it' is that you're about to do. Scientifically, I mean. This makes sense to me. Any questions? Yes, you with the clipboard." Several journalists with clipboards began speaking at the same time. "Leann with the clipboard," Pamela clarified. Leann asked her question, which was not picked up by the mics, but which Pamela helpfully repeated back verbatim. "Is our decision impacted by the recent works of Doctor J-" Here Pamela paused and made a face as if she had just bit into the sourest of lemons. "By Doctor Jan-" Pamela paused again and shakily took a sip of water. "I'm going to pretend you said by 'that woman' because that's more tolerable to me. Yes, it is. Anyone else? No? Alright, bye then." With that, Pamela hastily climbed into a car and drove away. Well, listeners, I must say, I completely agree with this decision. Mostly because I texted my husband to ask him what he thought, and he said he agrees too. So there you have it.

And now for traffic.

A car lies alone in a quiet ditch and the driver is still alive. On the back bumper, there is an array of colorful stickers, all pastel and candy-hued. One sticker says "Night Vale Community College Honor Student", a declaration of personal achievement that would be pretentious, were it not so admirable. There is a sticker that says "Save the Bees" and a sticker that says "Shop local" with a little cartoon farmer. There is a pride flag sticker, a nautical delta flag sticker, a sticker of the US flag on fire. The tires of the car are also on fire. Just the front ones. The left side door is dented inward, and already flowers are growing through the rust hole in the open passenger door. It squeaks on its hinges, still swaying, while dandelions and nightshade poke up through the metal. In the rearview mirror, lights twinkle red and blue. The pieces of metal scattered all around catch this light, and reflect it, dancing all over the quiet ditch and the empty road, a dazzling, shimmery display. A moth lands on the windshield, which resembles a disco ball, if disco balls were vaguely rectangular. The lights are getting closer now, and the moth flits away into the night. A car lies alone in a quiet ditch, and the driver is still alive.

This has been traffic.

Alright, so back to my family. Carlos, Esteban, and I live on Ourobourus Road, in the nicest house on our street. We have a backyard where Esteban plays on his jungle gym, and where we can walk our dog, Aubergine. Safa, what is it now? Oh, right. The weather. I guess I have extended the broadcast a little bit too much. Well, Vermillion Falls, let's go to the weather.

Welcome back, Vermillion Falls.

While we were in the weather, I asked my new intern, Safa, to go over the next few media reports to see if they could just kind of condense them down a little bit for me. I did go a little bit over the time limit, but can you blame me? I haven't talked to you all for years! I really wanted to give you updates about Carlos! Anyway, Safa was reading the reports while they poured themself a glass of water from the sink, but accidentally dropped them in. And when they reached to pick up the soggy papers, Safa's arm sank deep underwater. Much deeper than the half-inch of water pooled into the sink. Their entire body pitched forward, and Safa splashed into the sink. They tried to swim back up, to climb back out of the sink and into Night Vale, but instead, Safa resurfaced in the middle of a lake, in the town of Vermillion Falls!

I know this because Frank just texted our group chat. And according to him, no one who's entered Vermillion Falls through that lake has ever left. It's pretty difficult to find Night Vale, anyways, so it's safe to say that Safa will be there with you guys for a while. Perhaps indefinitely. So, please welcome Safa to your town! I'm sure they'll have a great time. At least, I hope so.

And to the family and loved ones of Intern Safa, they weren't that great of an intern, and they kept interrupting me, but they aren't technically dead, so I can speak as ill of them as I'd like. I'm sure they will call you soon. Just probably from a different time zone.

Alright, back to my broadcast about my husband. That's what this was supposed to be, after all, and I think it's fair enough that I can continue it without any more interruptions. So, settle in, Vermillion Falls! I have a lot to catch you up on. So anyway, Carlos's skin is beautiful and smooth, since he uses an incredible skincare routine made up of two toners and a revitalizing serum, and his cologne...

Broadcast continues for three hours.

[kerink]

239 react

wtf a new city?! how are was 12 years in and we're STILL getting world expansion?!

did we forget nulogorsk as a sister city <- i know cities can have multiple sister cities

fuck vermillion falls ig they're not getting their news lol hope nothing serious happens ^_^

they got dogs out here

mirror towns 😳

starlight early evening so cute

im laughing at how specific he is

cant have anyone trying to find us kjljksskls

LOOK AT CELL PHONES AND BECOME DEMOCRATS DFKNGLKDFJGD

YIPEEEEE (RUNS INTO THE DARK TO GET A KITTEN)

im so glad every voice just doxxes people <3 time honored tradition

oh all voices are stupid too <3

the hunt?? 😳😳

EH?! SPORTS?!

frank is so easy to listen to

nobody likes a gossip.... so frank and cecil wont get along

[shadethechangingman]

i got to "he is holding a knife" last night (listened to sister cities: vermillion falls up thru mother lauren then went to bed) and i swear "he is holding a knife. he is still holding a knife" was one of the older episode intros but alas i looked it up and instead spoiled the reveal for The Boy right before i got to it but also i REALLY swear cecil said that exact phrase before

[bookgeekgrrl]

My media this week (3-9 Dec 2023)

just fucking spatchcocked him

📚 STUFF I READ 📚

😊 The Late Mrs. Willoughby (Mr. Darcy & Miss Tilney #2) (Claudia Gray, author; Billie Fulford-Brown, narrator) - another perfectly serviceable, decently entertaining historical cozy mystery feat. Austen characters and their progeny. Plot's pretty basic but it's still cute to see Jonathan Darcy (autistic king) and Juliette Tilney (mom's adventure sense, dad's common sense) solving murders again. The 'obstacles' to their romance are typical for a series like this but still annoying [tbh in more deft hands they might be more angsty and less annoying but it is what it is]

😍 The Charming Man (Zenaidamacrouras1, author; Late_to_party_81, artist) - 65K, shrinkyclinks no powers AU - just a delightful fic with adorable art (TEXTILE ART!) - I'll let the author's summary speak for itself: "Tldr: Steve has an eventful three weeks. Longer version: Steve Rogers is quite happy with his pleasantly simple life working as a graphic designer, chatting with his best friend Sam who has the desk next to his, eating the same gluten free sandwich for lunch every day, and staring out his office window hoping to catch a glimpse of The Charming Man walking by. Unfortunately, life has a tendency to get complicated without our permission, particularly when Steve begins to suspect that a certain evil corporation is doing criminal things that decidedly grate on his nerves." Great banter/hilarious lines - even the secondary characters get great lines plus some fine quality angst.

😍 Proper English (England World #1) (KJ Charles, author; Bella Lowe, narrator) - reread, love love love. The origin story of fluffy Fen & practical Pat getting together and solving a country house murder.

😍 Think Of England (England World #2) (KJ Charles, author; Tom Carter, narrator) - reread. Another country house mystery featuring blackmail and treason being resolved by Daniel Da Silva (poet & spy) and Archie Curtis (blond viking himbo, about to have a gay awakening) with secondary but crucial support from Fen & Pat

😊 Lessons In Chemistry (Brenda) - 42K, stucky no powers college AU - I’m not often in the mood for a college AU but this hit the spot

💖💖 +46K of shorter fic so shout out to these I really loved 💖💖

Cupid's Rugby Ball (softestpunk) - The Sandman: Dreamling, 5K - h/c meet cute with instalove, as is only correct for this pairing 😆

you'll never be blue ([currently anonymous]) - The Cabots (Cat Sebastian): Peter/Caleb, 3K - "Caleb and Peter, adjusting to living together." Perfectly captured the character voices! {written for the Fic In A Box 2023 exchange, authors not yet revealed}

📺 STUFF I WATCHED 📺

D20: Fantasy High: Sophomore Year - e4-7

Dirty Laundry - s3, e7

D20: Burrow's End - "Evolution and Revolution" (s20, e10)

D20: Adventuring Party - "Welcome to the Honk Honk Club" (s15, e10)

Dimension 20 Interview: Siobhan Thompson Talks Jaysohn's Near Death In Burrow's End & Fantasy High

Doctor Who: The Star Beast (2023 special #1)

Doctor Who: Wild Blue Yonder (2023 special #2)

🎧 PODCASTS 🎧

⭐ Welcome to Night Vale #239 - Sister Cities: Vermillion Falls

What Next: TBD - They See You When You’re Shopping

Desert Island Discs - Lea Salonga, singer and actor

⭐ The Sporkful - Rise Of The Foodie Bro (The Year In Food 2023)

Cautionary Tales - The Dunning Kruger Hijack (and Other Criminally Stupid Acts)

Wiser Than Me with Julia Louis-Dreyfus - Julia Gets Wise with Amy Tan

Vibe Check - Nostalgia, Ultra

99% Invisible #562 - Breaking Down The Power Broker (with Conan O'Brien)

Endless Thread - "Extremely Online" with Taylor Lorenz

Ologies with Alie Ward - Syndesiology (CONNECTIONS) with James Burke

NPR's Book of the Day - Norman Lear's memoir recalls a life and career that shaped American television

Cautionary Tales - Demonizing Dungeons & Dragons

⭐ Switched on Pop - Hear the Year: The music we loved in 2023

One Year - 1990: Bush vs. Broccoli

Song Exploder - Raye - Escapism (feat. 070 Shake)

Today, Explained - Get the lead out

What Next: TBD - Spotify Unwrapped

Today, Explained - Are movies too long now?

Dear Prudence - My Friend Won’t Stop Buying Me Gifts. Help!

The Atlas Obscura Podcast - The Super Museum

Wait Wait… Don't Tell Me! - Fred Schneider

Strong Songs - The Band: The Last Waltz

Endless Thread - What Is That?!

⭐ Cautionary Tales - How the Radium Girls Fought Back

🎶 MUSIC 🎶

'90s R&B Girl Groups

Presenting Etta James

Pop Motivation

Victoria Monét

Troye Sivan

Laufey

[astarab1aze]

Myrrdin, of true Sunjatta

Humans and standard mages are generally located here in the capital city, Camlothe, or in the surrounding villages/towns (Cutwater, Bywater, Stillwater, Blackwater, and Myrris). The people here are arrogant and prideful, flawed and distrustful of any not their own (though, specifically, the elves). The kingdom is led by a descendent of Merlin himself, King Myrrlin XXVII, who has a curiosity and love for magic despite the decline of its use or public interest in it. It is his interest alone that keeps Myrrdinian wizards and mages employed, despite there being a number of services in the capital that only wizards and mages can fulfill. The kingdom is heavily fortified and plentiful in population, though there is a great plain ( Malefactor's March ) between the capitol and the Chimerian border; Camlothe's sister city, Myrris, serves to keep the legions of undead, Myhala, and all other evils at bay. Most warriors, bandits, sellswords, barbarians, Wildlings, and master alchemists you'll see on the East Road hail from Myrrdin. Likewise, most criminals relocated to Kírât also hail from Myrrdin ( as well as Kavasta, the Diremark, and some select smaller nations ).

The architecture is largely... whimsigothic in nature, though it is much brighter. White and gold are the main colors seen throughout the capital, but the impossibly massive royal castle on the cliffs observing Zuri ( Merlin's Landing ) is made all the more noticeable with the additions of vermillion and deep purple. The capital city is well-guarded and would not fall to a full-on invasion of enemy forces for quite some time. Every man, woman, and child is encouraged to take up arms and eventually venture out into the rest of the Myrrdinian lands - it is a deeply valued tradition, as the experience is extremely important when applied in times of war. Hunting and orc slaying are considered noble tasks. So much so that even an outsider ( Arda Störmhammer, a wizened dwarven battlemaster ) has been awarded the title of Orcslayer of Myrrdin.

While the people are generally considered arrogant and prideful, they are also hopeful and steadfast, capable of withstanding incredible hardship and intense warfare. Camlothe is much more culturally open than it seems, having long-established trade agreements and treaties with Nuradan, Zuri, Nilmyrion, Mange Figi, Askarra, Scarburn, Nouxfret, Kavasta, Adamant, Luvia, and even the Watchers of Haagrífön in the Black Eyrie of Chimeria; The people of Myrris are more weathered, stubborn, and adventurous than their Camlothi counterparts, if a bit distrustful.

Myrrdin is, however, slow on its roll in regarding the warnings of the King's court wizard. No one alive today in Myrrdin knows of the great evil that was defeated two Ages prior, nor can they fathom its return. Their ignorance is deeply uncharacteristic, but this can be attributed to many thousands of years of relative peace in Myrrdinian lands. Conflicts with the Wildlings, beastfolk, vampires of Strigane, among others are relatively few in number when considering history as a whole; However, there have been a handful of great wars between the Descendants of Merlin (the ruling house) and a handful of other great houses in the Malefactor's March and at the borders of the capital city. The scars of such wars can still be seen to this day.

In Myyrdin, there is a vast, empty, and deathly plain stained with putrid death and scarred by war unceasing. Rot and despair plague these lands so haunted by legions of the dead, once dotted by numerous settlements belonging to the Upper Houses (the aristocracy), that which lies between between the Fortified City to the South and the outpost hub, Dragon's Watch, at the. Little else but the shambling remnants of their fallen kin remain, accompanied by the blackhearted, monstrous brutes who align themselves with the Fallen Queen Vaadynî, the Death Knell of Sunjatta. Together, they continue to slowly burn away at the edges of the March, leaving behind mountains of bodies and rivers of blood, where naught but ash and embers fall and the light of the Bright-Burning Star cannot cut through the smoke.

Even and especially now, the Death Knell’s armies coupled with the legions of the fallen undead and Myhalas choke what life still remains in the March, spreading like a terrible poison as they scatter in all directions. They make their ways in dedicated factions toward the borders of the western-most points of both the Diremark and the Dustveil as well, inching ever closer toward the great walls of Myrris and, by proxy, Camlothe; Were it not for the towering cliff-faces of the easterly Raven’s Spine or its razor-sharp labyrinth of blackstone pathways, the combined efforts of the Allied City in Zuri, Emûn Kethelín, or the Fhal'Tir and Chimerian Lightguard at the entrances to the Chimerian Deep, so, too, would these great and terrible armies have begun to pour into the valleys between the mountains and wreak unfathomable devastation. For now, despite their unceasing march, the Death Knell’s forces and the undead company they keep are barred from the central expanse of Myrrdin, but such unwavering guard is not promised to continue and, perhaps sooner than any would readily admit, it may one day fail.

And when that day should come, the skies will shade the world in inescapable blackness and rain down upon them all ash and flame.

It was not always this way. In fact, Malefactor’s March was once known as the March of the Golden, favored by the Fírrimídr (the gods at the beginning and end of the world, though chiefly Ímídr - gods shared with the Fhal'Tir). Endless fields of Goldleaf and Silver Foil bloomed here when the sun would set on the eastern horizon, accompanied by buds of complimentary petta blossoms and the ethereal glow of Ímdíra’s Breath; The soil was rich and dense in necessary nutrients for the cultivation of a great many alchemical ingredients and, likewise, grain crops and more. The Upper Houses expanded their territories out of Myrris into the March, encouraging their constituents to homestead or form settlements all throughout, effectively building Myrrdin's economy and achieving for them all unprecedented prosperity. The people thrived, often joining in Myrris and the capital for seasonal festivals. Frea was founded in the foothils of the Tri-Raven’s Spine to the northwest to mark the final reaches of Myrrdinian borders, but it, too, swelled with traffic and unexpected growth, and it served as a cultural melting pot where the Elves, Dwarves, Ágrifön, and other beastfolk could share their crafts and hunting spoils.

But, toward the end of the Second Era, when peace in Sunjatta was at its peak, a secret war raged on between the Éimadra and the ancient horrors lurking beneath Sunjatta's surface (in the sprawling underground territory of what is now known as Myhalas).

[queer-starwars-bracket]

Queer Star Wars Characters (Round 1): General Bracket Match 53

Vukorah | Identity: wlw | Media: Bounty Hunters comic

Vukorah was an orphan raised by the leader of the Unbroken Clan. She considered him her father and his daughter her sister. Krynthia reciprocated, but her father only saw Vukorah as the help. She grew up to become a general in the Clan. She’s been a long term antagonist of the Bounty Hunters comic series.When she discovered that the young girl Cadeliah was the heir to both the Unbroken Clan and Mourner’s Wail syndicates, she began to hire bounty hunters to kidnap her. However, after Qi’ra recruited her into Crimson Dawn and promised her the leadership of the Unbroken Clan she left Cadeliah to Crimson Dawn. She returned to Corellia, where she killed the leader of the Unbroken Clan, who hadn’t really done anything since the death of his daughter. Vukorah hated him, because her work to maintain the syndicate had gone unrecognized while he mourned the girl she had always been in the shadow of. Under her command, the Unbroken Clan quickly consolidated its power over Coronet City. She was attacked and captured by T’onga’s crew, who was under the employ of Mourner’s Wail. When imprisoned by T’onga, she hostility flirted with her. However, when the crew attacked the Vermillion to rescue Cadeliah, she escaped and killed Losha’s nexu. Due to past trauma from being forced to kill her pet tooka, having to kill an animal was actually very distressing to her. She overheard Qi’ra’s plan to give Cadeliah control of both the Unbroken Clan and Mourner’s Wail. Vukorah returned to Corellia to defend her throne against those acting in Cadeliah’s name. 

Vukorah’s upbringing left her very brutal, sadistic, and a bit unhinged. She grew to hate her childhood friend for falling in love with the heir of Mourner’s Wail. She was truly loyal to the Unbroken Clan, but the concept rather than individual leaders or members. She had a sense of style and a love for luxury. She’s not currently the main antagonist of the Bounty Hunters series, but has continued to make short appearances doing her own thing- likely setting up when she will come into conflict with T’onga’s crew once more.

Matthea “Matty” Cathley | Identity: wlw | Media: The High Republic Phase II

Matty Cathley was the talkative (and ADHD-coded) padawan of Master Leebon, the Jedi Order’s representative to Jedha’s convocation of the Force. Matty was assigned to introduce Vildar Mac to Jedha, causing her to spend the lead up to and the Battle of Jedha by his side. She ended up defending the bar Enlightenment from rioters and enforcer droids. During the battle, her master was consumed by the Leveler. Vildar became her new master. After the battle, she was assigned to investigate the Path of the Open Hand with Oliviah Zeveron. She had a crush on Oliviah, and the mission reignited that. However, she was eventually able to process her star-struckness. Their investigation put them right in the middle of the Night of Sorrow. During the battle, when being attacked by the Leveler, Matty was able to push through its fear effect.

[gaydelgard]

heres an arbitrary list of Recent Episodes of Night Vale That I Personally Thought Were Very Good:

232. A Car Crash on Buellton Avenue

233. Citizen Spotlight: The Vampire of Lombardi Street

239. Sister Cities: Vermillion Falls

i would recommend these to anyone that was once caught up on wtnv but isnt any longer

or even anyone just looking for an interesting ~half hour of audio

[agnes-come-back-challenge]

man who comes out of the lake (has come out of the lake): grey suit and blue tie. grey eyes, blue mouth, grey hair, blue hands, grey voice, and blue words.

Motives: unknown

Status: Dangerous. Wants something from us (that we can't give him)

Advice: Avoid. Don't look at his: grey fingers, blue fingernails. Don't acknowledge: grey bag or blue book inside. Don't worry about the grey words he writes (in sharp blue ink). Run if u see him

[im-someone-i-guess]

@iambecomeyourvillain @black-like-my-soul @blackasmysoul @ghafa-dale @ghafascortana @sankt-nazyalensky @cressjacquine @jurdan-my-beloved @boredbookwormgirl @same-crazy-art-girl34 @alonlyfangirl   @saltyfortunes @writeforjordelia @confused-as-all-hell @moobrvoobl-moobmoob-oobmpoobroom @apple-bottom-jeansx @fatpotatosaysmoo @herondalesunsetcurve @investmentofmyheart @22herondale

The blood that glinted on Mati was the exact vermillion as Nalya’s kebaya. The blade had never looked deadlier, red staining the curves and a man lying dead at Nalya’s feet. She didn’t know the man’s name, or exactly why Babah wanted him dead but Nalya worked under the assumption that her father had his reasons and that was enough for her.

And one would call her a monster for it, the streets of Darah already do but it wasn’t much to fret about. They were superstitious people saying that death blackens one’s soul, cooled one’s heart but Nalya’s body still emitted heat, proving them otherwise. But Nalya could not say the same for her soul, she expected it to be just as stained as her kebaya.

Suddenly she was conscious of the state she was in, dried blood crusting every inch of her, accompanied with the realization that she was in desperate need for a long bath. As swiftly as she could, Nalya got rid of the body, carrying the corpse down the flights of seemingly endless stairs and burying him near the carcass of a cat. If people were to find the body, they would encounter the cat first.

But they would not stop and would eventually find the body- well bodies.

“Nalya Aafiyati binti Cahaya?”

She had thought the sun would rise from the west sooner than she heard Aryan Khajee bin Gelap ‘s rough voice, see his black curly hair or the gold of his skin. But here he was and perhaps when dawn creeps the sun would not rise from the east any longer.

“Ary?” The nickname slipped out before Nalya could think better of it. She had called him that before, years ago when she wore simple clothes, kerongsangs lacking jewels, her hair worn down in tangled strands. It was a time when blood did not stain her fingers, when Mati was not sheathed underneath her kebaya.

“Nalya, do you happen to be enduring your monthly womanly flowering,” he said it like a fact, casting a pointed gaze at the dried blood crusting the hem of her blouse. “I recalled you telling me of how it so dreadfully hurt. Shall I walk you home so you don’t faint halfway there?”

Babah would not appreciate boys walking her home, especially if she was bloodstained and furthermore if that particular boy was Aryan. He wasn’t a threat, to her or Babah’s business but Nalya supposed if he was someone of major consequence, certainly Babah would have already ordered her to murder Aryan.

“You do not have to walk me home, Encik Aryan.” Nalya hurried through the street, longing for the familiar view of her brick red rooftops. She could feel Aryan still strolling around behind her, his steady footsteps bidding off any curious onlookers. A couple walking near dawn was a more acceptable scene compared to a girl walking alone.

“You aren’t asking me questions, Nalya. Are you not wondering about where I’ve been all these years?” Aryan walked beside her now, his black eyes staring at Nalya with an amusement she did not understand. “I was sent away because of you, you know. Mother insists I cannot fall in love with you.”

And Nalya completely agreed with Puan Farhah, they were becoming an outrageous pair of lovestruck teenagers, reckless and without a care in the world. They had already committed plenty of irresponsible mistakes, almost costing both their parents a hefty amount of irreplaceable goods.

“Well, you’re home.” And she was, they had approached the most dangerous corner of Darah, the richest part of the city. Most of the houses were no longer made of wood but rather with stone, brick, and cement. The lands around them were adorned with beautiful flowers, planted with hired gardeners. They were pretty, but the arrangement was artificial.

Like the smile Nayla put on as she turned to Aryan. “Thank you Aryan. Despite my insistence in telling you otherwise, you still walked me home.” Quickly as she could, she strutted home, holding her kebaya down so no one would see the glint of Mati. There were rumours that the Shitabs were going to ban keris knives, seeing one on a young girl would even encourage that law to happen.

“Fifi?” Mother’s voice sounded ever-so concerned, ever-so unreal.

Nalya climbed her way atop the tangga, her eyes counting each petal she passed, the floral pattern catching her interest as it always has. Despite being located in wealthy Kaya, their houses were still made of wood. Father said it was a reminder to their family that despite their slanted eyes, they were still Yalams, they belonged at Darah.

“Habis tu, have you disposed of him?”

It was foolish to think Babah would start with a good how are you.

“Dah Babah, the mission was successful.” And my soul wears another stain, but Nalya said no such thing. She bowed respectfully to her father and made her way to her room.

The lamp had already been lit, multiple matches, tips blackened were scattered on the floor. It was as if a child successfully lit it only to drop the match from the alarming heat. At least the house wasn’t burnt to the ground, Yaqeen would be getting much more than a light scolding from her elder sister.

“Kakak?”

The people of Darah also insist that a stained soul was incapable of loving and if there was one thing Nalya loved, it was Yaqeen Afiyat bin Cahaya, her dear brother.

The boy was lying atop her bed, cocooned under the covers, nested by pillows. Nalya had always told Yaqeen how he was welcome to come into her room if something troubled him but it was late. He should be asleep, should at least be inside his room.

“Yaqeen, why aren’t you asleep?”

The boy emerged from under the blanket, revealing a bloody nose. His whole face was smeared with the dark red, as if he had hastily wiped it. Nalya’s bed was stained too but the bed sheets could be replaced. Money wasn’t scarce.

“I told Babah but he didn’t open the door.” Nalya knew Yaqeen was going to cry, and saw the furrow of his brows. They only appeared when he was trying to keep a straight face, when he was desperately trying to hold back his tears. “He doesn’t want to talk to me, does he not love me?”

Yaqeen got off the bed, making his way across the room to hug her. Heedless of Nalya’s stained kebaya, his shirt was already soaked with blood. His small figure relaxed and he started crying, his body shaking with each sob.

“I’m sure he does, maybe he was busy.” That wasn’t an excuse, it never was but Yaqeen’s sobs eased and his arms wrapped around her tighter. “You can sleep here okay?”

As Nalya went behind the changing screen, peeling off her bloodstained kebaya in favour of a cotton shirt and a kain batik, thoughts swirled inside her mind. She does as her father tells her to, kill those he orders her too but that was business.

Yaqeen was family and you put family first, you always do.

[aaluminiumas]

Die for Me

あなたこそが “ 海賊王 ” に なる男

Lukewarm blood gushed out from the deep wounds. Ripping apart huge chunks of flesh and feeling the solidity of a bone inside, Monet genuinely relished her superiority savoring every note of the harrowing, blood-curdling shriek the woman in her deadly embrace emitted.

That Marine girl was no good at all; her tactics may not be exactly lame or useless, nor did she lack fervor or courage, but she turned out to be too modest and polite to attack – and also feeble. While the Marines claimed to have implemented a variety of brand-new top-notch techniques that would improve fighting skills of nearly any novice, they tended to send weaklings barely able to resist a simple scuffle, let alone serious combat with high ranks such as her or Caesar. This one wasn’t an exception to the rule: though promoted, Tashigi proved her disability to be on the offensive, thus confirming Monet’s expectations and dispelling the illusion of power Smoker had successfully created earlier.

“I adore it when you yell so desperately,” the Harpy muttered nonchalantly in the unctuous voice, her lips smeared with blood. “So I might break your scapula just for fun. My fangs can go through bone like butter. What a lovely day we are having, aren’t we?.. Care to brighten it further?”

Monet’s viselike grip tightened, and a bone cracked; Tashigi’s scream of utter anguish pierced the chaos and turmoil. In a moment, the woman limped in the Harpy’s wings. This last shrill seemed to have deserted her internally, leaving little to no stamina to stand up for herself and resist the throes shooting through her fragile body. The Harpy, though, felt no remorse or contrition. Quite on the contrary, she yielded into the perverse pleasure of being in charge – her well-nurtured sadistic inclinations and proclivities could finally splurge and flourish. Normally, it was Doflamingo whose hatred of the Marines came unwrapped. He was always in command; he was always aware of the potential threat and danger that could strike at any given moment, and now she could defend him from this invasion without an innuendo on his part. He had protected her in the past, bestowed a shelter, and took care of her younger sister—

“Enough.”

A low voice, hardly louder than Tashigi’s shallow breath muffled all the sounds, including explosions and the clash in the distant rooms. A swordsman with cold resolution in the single eye stood there, unmoving, his face serious, yet completely unreadable.

Monet’s fine features contorted in a lopsided smirk, her head withdrawing from Tashigi’s injured shoulder. Spoiled by pride, the swordsman didn’t seem to see a worthy opponent in her. Good for him, she thought. The Marine’s death would be on his hands – after all, he couldn’t compare to one of the best soldiers among the Donquixotes.

“I said enough,” he growled quietly, advancing and raising his katana, the silver eye narrowing. “Didn’t you hear?”

“She shouted too loudly. Should I shut her up?” Monet’s voice remained vaguely flirtatious, her antics jaunty, but the swordsman betrayed no emotion whatsoever. Instead, without a single warning, he pivoted forward, sword at the ready. Prancing at superhuman speed, the man neatly cut her in half – her logia powers weren’t a mere obstacle to him or his blade.

“I’m a Logia, you fool,” Monet spat with a haughty grin, “You think I’m scared?”

That fact alone contributed to her arrogance and hoity-toity attitude. While the majority of the Donquixote Family had to satisfy themselves with commonplace and hackneyed Paramecias, she got lucky – Doflamingo brought in a Logia fruit, the rarest type, and presented it to her. He might have intended to give it to Vergo, who hadn’t joined the number of the fruit-eaters and preferred to use his innate physical force. At any rate, such thoughts barely intruded on her mind: Doflamingo, the Young Master she worshipped, literally made her a gift desired by many. And what a scenery it was: he called in a meeting, ordered his favorite delicacies, thus forcing the whole city to cook for him, and sprawled across his improvised throne. Trebol, giggling under his breath, Diamante with his ever-lasting smirk, the imperturbable Pica, Vergo with the rigorous mien… Well, she was never part of the elite – nor did she plan to climb higher. The seat beside Doflamingo’s feet seemed comfortable enough to occupy – this position turned her into a valuable asset, who caught all the messages and orders intoned in a low, seductive voice. Despite that, the Young Master did not banish her – he remained seated, asking her to tell them all about her first murder – committed with a taste.

Logia powers made the bearer almost invincible, and Monet, a proficient user, trained by the best, especially by Vergo, knew what she was worth.

“I’m a Logia,” the Harpy repeated, the blizzard howling louder. “It doesn’t hurt me.”

“We’ll see,” came the answer.

Not even looking at her, the man grabbed the wounded woman and hurried to the exit, while Monet, absolutely dumbfounded, discovered that she could not get together. What appeared to be a single cut turned out to be a series of swift swishes in the air that slashed her snow-made body in a split second with the power that significantly surpassed her own. The result unfolded in slow motion: the more time went, the more it hurt; paralyzed, she listlessly perused the gashes opening in her skin – the man had inflicted much more damage than she had initially anticipated.

Furious, lacerated by what seemed to be a hundred blades, Monet yelled – and realized that it caused another wound to splay. The flesh got torn apart somewhere in her stomach and sent an impetus to the lungs prompting another incision to dehisce. The blood spurted up and flushed out from her mouth, staining the green shirt. Coughing, gagging, and covering her lips with a defective wing that had also been slit and now painted vermillion, the Harpy leaned over a gigantic machine with a red button on its panel. Half-conscious, she stared at it – it certainly was a way out. If she pushes it, the whole island will go up in flames. Nobody survived, case closed. Nobody discovers the dirty scheme Vergo had initiated in the Marine to abduct kids; nobody learns about the dubious experiments of the ambiguous nature performed by Caesar. Nobody connects Young Master – her Young Master – to the helter-skelter in the lab, nobody–

Her consciousness drifted away; small lacerations proved to be even worse than the deeper ones – blood didn’t stop from dripping, and she couldn’t control the amount she had lost. Falling to the ground, quivering, Monet twitched her wings in a fruitless attempt to maintain balance. It was overkill, anyway, at least she deemed so. Her wounds were fatal; she very well understood that she was a goner – but it was still in her power to prevent future events from happening.

Suddenly, Monet heard the quiet mumbling of a snail. Caesar, concerned about Joker’s supervision and unremitting control (the notion he strongly believed but which wasn’t true to the fact: Doflamingo, after Monet’s infiltration, called every once in a while, just to give the man heebie-jeebies, in case he felt lazy), installed snails everywhere, each equipped with a unique number. Only Joker could have access to them – no one else would be able to call here, the sanctum sanctorum of the lab.

The injured wing reached for the receiver, then twitched and fell. Trembling, the Harpy moaned in agony, choked on the blood, and made a feeble attempt to get up. Didn’t work; her face contorted in pure anguish. Invincible, trained, fortified by a number of experiments conducted under Doflamingo’s supervision, she never expected a failure. Especially a failure like this.

The snail kept grumbling, Monet whimpered; struggling to stand up, the Harpy felt a million needles skewering into her body, avulsing the thinnest and the tiniest blood vessels. She had to be slow not to disturb the veins that still remained intact. Making a superhuman effort, Monet propped herself up, her chest heaving, her wings jittered ever so slightly.  Panting, leaning over the tremendous apparatus towering over her, the Harpy managed to answer the call.

“Monet?” called a low, mellifluous voice coming from a snail. “Monet, do you read?”

“Yes, Young Master,” she mustered her shattered self to respond.

“I do not have the slightest idea what is happening right now,” he drawled pensively, “But it is certainly far from the plan I have drawn up.”

“They– they snatched Caesar.”

Doflamingo paused, pondering over her words. That loudmouth fool, calling himself a genius, failed to kick the teenager’s ass and let himself get captured by a bunch of mere kids playing real pirates. It had been funny to hear that that Strawhat Luffy defeated Sir Crocodile, one of the most feared and infamous warlords; after all, Doflamingo shook hands with the man and knew exactly what his weaknesses were, but Caesar Clown was another thing. First off, he claimed himself to be a brilliant scientist, and, in fact, he had managed to synthesize a drug that made children comparable to giants in force and probably in size. Furthermore, he used his earlier formulae and calculations, retrieved the readouts of the past experiments to create artificial Devil Fruits. So, he clearly was not a complete idiot. However, he employed none of his ingenious tricks to kill the annoying brat on sight when he had the opportunity.  Too bad the factory couldn’t work without his involvement – otherwise, Doflamingo himself would’ve got disposed of Caesar as well.

“Monet,” he finally spoke, his voice dropping down a notch. “You were loyal to me.”

“Till the end, Young Master,” she muttered, her voice not louder than a susurrus of wind.

“Die for me.” He commanded coolly, his eyes staring into space unwinkingly. “Monet, die for me and send this place to hell. Take them all along with you.”

“Yes, Young Master. I will do as you please.”

Her lips, covered with blood and gore, stretched in a gentle smile addressed to no one in particular. He cared about her. He wanted her to perform this last task for him, in the name of his future achievements and accomplishments, and she would not let him down.

She raised her wing, slightly quavering, preparing to hit the red button. Exuding a quiet hum, the Harpy lowered it – and gasped, immediately falling onto the ground with a loud, heavy thump.

“Monet?.. Monet, what’s happened? Monet, can you hear me?..”

She uttered a wheezing sound, and her visage froze in a rictus of death.

[loosesodamarble]

‘They assumed they were supposed to be scared by they weren’t.’ for fuegoleon please? any genre works, I know it’ll be great! ~ potat XD ~

Hello potat anon! Thank you for this request! Sorry it took so long for me to complete! I was having trouble getting inspiration but once I did I went off! Hopefully you like how it turned out!

..........

Fuegoleon Vermillion felt his heart surge with the most courage he'd felt up until that point in that moment. After all, what he was going to attempt might’ve been his greatest challenge yet.

Fuegoleon clenched his fist and stated, “I want us to spar against one another. Right here, right now.”

“Oh?” The grin on Mereoleona’s face was wide with amusement and aggression. It made Fuegoleon all the more eager for the challenge. “Do you plan on actually going all-out against me today? Such a hardnose, as always.”

“Just you wait an—”

Mereoleona’s fist made contact with Fuegoleon’s face, causing him to stumble back a few strides.

“I’m not gonna wait.” She stalked towards Fuegoleon with shoulders forward in a faint hunch, a predatory stance. She was hungry for a fight. “You said ‘here and now.’ So let’s get on with it!”

“Fine.” Fuegoleon straightened himself out and matched Mereoleona’s expression. “Prepare yourself!” He charged towards his sister setting his fist ablaze.

Mereoleona met Fuegoleon head on, cloaking her own hands in fire. Their attacks collided, resulting in an explosive burst that pushed both of them back. Fuegoleon skidded to a stop then snapped his head up just in time to see Mereoleona once again leaping at him. Fuegoleon kicked off the ground, sidestepping the incoming strike. The brick wall that was once behind him did not survive.

Even without a grimoire! Fuegoleon couldn’t stop himself from smiling. Despite the destruction, seeing his sister go all out was a sight to behold. That’s my sister for you! Now to show what I can do!

Fuegoleon closed in, ducking beneath a thrown punch. Unrepentantly, he slammed both fists into Mereoleona’s stomach. Finally, he unleashed a stream of flames.

Embers rose up through his vision. Orange and red drowned out every other color. As the heat bled into his clothes and skin, a thought occurred to Fuegoleon.

I don’t think I’ve felt this way before… I’m going all out and yet I’m not tired at all! I wonder if…

Fuegoleon ended his spell. Soot drew a distinct line in front of him. The nearby grass was burned away. Even the cobblestone was scorched black.

A few meters off, Mereoleona pushed herself out from the indent of a house’s outer wall. Her hair had fallen loose. They locked eyes across the distance, Mereoleona’s eyes burning bright despite their cold color. Her expression was more like an animal baring its fangs than a smile. Fire billowed around her like a mantle. The pressure she gave off… indescribable.

He assumed he was supposed to be scared but he wasn’t. In fact, Fuegoleon was excited to see where this fight would take him and Mereoleona.

Mereoleona let out a battle cry as she used her fire to propel herself into the air. An arc of red followed her. Fuegoleon imitated her, literally rising to the challenge.

Blazing fists struck one another again. The next thing Fuegoleon knew, he laid in a bed of broken roof shingles.

Could this be how she feels? Fuegoleon asked himself while pushing himself up. Does she feel this liberation whenever she trains? Is she feeling that way now? He smiled to himself. If not, I need to do better.

……….

The fight lasted hours. The battlefield spanned the whole of the capital city. Punch-for-punch. Blast-for-blast. Brother and sister were matched. They left fire and smoke in their destructive wake. Eventually, they both collapsed at the same time. A draw.

Through his now unruly hair, Fuegoleon barely made out Mereoleona’s head a few centimeters away from his. He let his eyes fall shut. The adrenaline having finally left his system.

“Fuego, you awake?” He feebly nodded to Mereoleona’s question. Then, a limp hand landed on his head. “Thanks.”

“Hm? For what exactly?”

“For today, stupid. I’ll consider it a going-away gift. I’ll treasure the memory.”

His eyes immediately began to sting. He squeezed them tighter, trying to fight back what was coming. He reached up and clutched Mereoleona’s hand like a lifeline. She squeezed his hand back. Fuegoleon shuddered as he sobbed involuntarily.

Fists that earlier aimed to bruise were now gentle hands brushing away the tears on his face.

Fuegoleon Vermillion felt his heart sink from the weight of reality. After all, the day had finally come for when Mereoleona would walk a path that would take her far from Fuegoleon.

As much as he disliked admitting it, there was a part of him that was never ready for it to happen.

[di-kut]

Oberyn Martell x Reader: Vermillion, vivacious, and vex. "You will accept the betrothal for her sake, or you may not see her again."

Birdie baby, this is for you. I hope you like it. I’m sorry it’s taken so long. 

Words: 5k

Summary: A short introduction of the events leading up to a mini series I am working on. We see Oberyn’s journey to King’s Landing and his first day in the capital. 

Warnings: mentions of abuse, mentions of death, canon typical violence, canon typical sexual themes

There are songbirds in Dorne which sing each morning as the sun rises, and each night again as it sets. Nest high on Sunspear and dive down from their perches in flurries of brilliant red, feathers like fire against the blue ocean. Oberyn’s mother would sit with him and Elia and tell them stories of the songbirds who are in love with the sun, of the sadness of fading love and of the dawn of the new each morning. They dance for the dawn and for the night and sing for the light of the day. A bright, beautiful song, part of the crashing waves against the shore below, part of home, of Dorne. They have sung every day of Oberyn’s life, and in the days before that, and in the days which will come after. But the day Elia died the birds did not sing.

The news come of the Royal Wedding when Oberyn and Ellaria are away from Sunspear.

Their retinue is quick to pack and to move. To start the journey to arrive back to Sunspear before the ships sail north, to meet with Doran. The air all around them is heavy with sorrow, and with anger. Oberyn is quiet in his fury, and Ellaria is quiet as well, until on their second night travelling when she is not anymore. Is explosive in her anger towards Oberyn. And he returns it, his head filled with the injustices done to his family, to his sister. With thoughts of the Mountain and of the Lannisters. He does not sleep well that night, even after apologies are passed between them, wakes restlessly and listens to the sounds of the camp around them. Thinks of the months which has passed since he had held Ellaria in his arms and finds he misses her. Not in the way he would have expected.

The road is dry and dusty from months without rain. Ellaria rides close to him through the day, reaches for his hand on his reins, and clutches it tightly. Tells him she is scared of what he will do, what will be done to him. That she will be with him through whatever comes. Oberyn holds her hand but he has no words of comfort for her.  

A storm is carried in from the ocean as they ride, it brings no rain but heavy thunder like the sound of gods screaming, and strikes of lightning all around them. Forks of white fire which leave scarred patches against the land. Hits a tree in their path. A gnarled, old trunk which splinters with a sound like the earth crackling. Its trunk, white with age, turned now black and charred, falls onto the road and it takes the rest of the day and some of the night to clear it. Use what they have cut from the trunk to fuel their fires that night and Oberyn thinks they are burning something ancient. Some piece of the world which is lost to them. The others murmur about the storm, about the trip to King’s Landing, about omens. Oberyn stretches his feet before the fire and watches as the log nearest him hisses and spits a plume of red sparks into the dark sky to disperse amongst the stars, the clouds of the storm passed.

He sleeps with his back to Ellaria that night and thinks of the smell of the old world burning. He dreams of dragons, and of Elia.

When they arrive in Sunspear Doran has the quiet look of knowing about him when he sees Oberyn. But he says nothing, gives him no cautions, makes no inquiries. And as they eat together that night Oberyn knows he is thinking of Elia as well. They eat in private, just the two brothers, on a balcony overlooking the black ocean glimmering with silver stripes in the moonlight. The last of the songbirds sing a song of mourning for the setting sun high above them. They drink deep from their cups, and in the morning, Doran lays a hand on Oberyn’s shoulder in warning.

“Do not do anything in haste, brother.” Doran’s eyes are heavy and dark. “I have lost enough to the Iron Throne.”

“We have lost blood, Doran. And it is blood we will get in return.”

Doran lets his hand fall to his side and sits back further in his chair. “And whose blood will you give me, Oberyn?”

Oberyn makes no answer. When he passes Ellaria she rests a hand light against his back and he brushes the warm skin at the top of her arm. Does not miss the look she shares with Doran before they mount for the journey to their waiting ship. The whole party is quiet through the streets of Dorne, are quiet as they make the ship ready, and as they use the oars deep in the belly of their vessel to cut out through the still water until they break the open ocean and unfurl the sail. And only then do the voices raise, as salt and wind and sea seem to wash away the gloom of travelling North.

.

The first blood is Lannister blood. The blade makes a wet, slick sound as it slides out from the man’s flesh. The spurting from the wrist is instant, red like the Lannister banner. Covering the man’s arm and sleeve and the table and dribbling onto the floor. Oberyn steps away so it does not ruin his silks. Ellaria is there, holding a hand in his robe already. The little Lannister in the doorway is no longer speaking, watches with a falling face as the two men stumble from their table, forget the sword which is laying across it, through the door and out into the brothel proper. Oberyn allows himself to be pulled back into Ellaria’s waiting arms. He turns and wraps himself around her familiar shape, tugs her against him. Lets her pull him in closer until his mouth is almost against hers. And he cannot see her twist from him, but he feels it. Only the smallest of movements, but then she turns again, back towards him now. And her mouth is hard against his with desperate purpose. Not because she wants him but because she wants to distract him. And although he has not kissed her in months, he knows the taste of her mouth well enough to understand.

He draws back. The sound of their lips parting tears a hole through his chest, and his head is all full of the argument they had before leaving Dorne, sudden and painful. Gently holds her face with one palm, clutches the silk of her dress against her thigh in the other. Still close enough to her that he barely has to whisper for her to hear him.

“You do not have to kiss me, my love, if you do not want to.” Brushes some of the hair away from her neck.

Ellaria shudders slightly. “I know.”

He moves his head back, so that he can see her properly. Her eyes so familiar. Another home for his heart in her soul. And she looks sad. Feels further away from him than she ever has. He thinks of the way she had looked beneath him in bed. Aches for the way he used to crave the feeling of her beneath him, above him, everywhere around him. For the time before they had only shared their bed with strangers to fill the space between them. Remembers her swollen with his children, four times, her glowing pride at them. Her ferocity in her love for them now. He smiles and brushes his thumb against her cheek. Hears the light clearing of throat from the Lannister and his man in the doorway.

“Why did you come with me?” He asks her. As gentle as his thumb against her cheek.

“Because I love you.”

“I love you with all my heart Ellaria. And I know you love me.” He leans forward again now. Rests his chin against her shoulder, turns his head to murmur against her neck so that their audience cannot hear him. “And I will always love you as my truest friend. But you did not follow me here as my paramour.”

She shudders for the second time in his arms. And for a moment he thinks she will leave him. But she sinks against him, slack, and buries her face into his shoulder. “I came to stop you from being killed in this mission you have set yourself.”

He sighs and hugs her closer. Feels the shift of the space between them become relief at last, building for months. And his heart breaks again and worse because he loves her, knows his love has changed as hers has as well. And he mourns it. The slow loss of her. The slow creeping through their lives as they grew and changed. There is a brief moment of anger, of injustice, that it should happen here. In the city where Elia had been taken from him to be murdered. Is selfishly glad Ellaria is with him all the same, that she will stand by him through the pain which is to come. He presses his hand against her hair to hold her to him.

“You do not trust me?”

“I do not trust them.”

Oberyn turns his head, keeps himself pressed against Ellaria to hide the tears he can feel against his collar. Lays his cheek against her shoulder and stares down at the little golden haired man in the doorway. Tyrion Lannister. The Imp. He looks uncomfortable at the intrusion.

“Prince Oberyn.” Tyrion rocks back and forward on his heels. “I’m here to welcome you to the Capital.”

.

Oberyn thinks that the Red Keep is an appropriate name for the castle on the hill. Buzzing and full of energy and life, built like a prison. Doesn’t quite cover up the stains of blood and screams and ghosts haunting it. The wedding will be soon. All around him the gardens wear the finery to show it, banners and plumes and curtains of Lannister and Tyrell colours flutter against the blue sky. And beneath them the people of noble blood lounge in the sun and smile. Unaware that they are sitting on bones. Unaware that all around them the walls of the Keep are going to pinch and close and suffocate them all. That a thousand years ago dragons would have razed them to the ground. Sitting on stone which would have melted. Oberyn feels it everywhere, feels it pressing down against his back like watching eyes, like waves of the ocean against stone.

He moves restlessly through the walls of green and the tinkling fountains. Has not slept, did not sleep on the ship before they arrived, or afterwards. Ellaria has stayed his paramour only in name, as she had been before, to protect her from the rabble and the crowd and the hunger of the Capital. Had cried when Oberyn returned from his talk with the Imp and kissed him gently on his mouth. Had tasted of goodbyes. His anger had been only brief and faded fast into something sweeter and sadder. He held her hands and they laid back against the silk cushions alone for the first time in so long and talked. About their daughters, about his brother, about their argument. They did not speak of Elia. She still did not want him to kill the Mountain, or Tywin Lannister. Afraid of what they would do to him. And he hushed her and held her to his chest and closed his eyes until she fell asleep and the burning of the midday sun and thickness of incense made his head hurt.

Oberyn takes only a few with him to the Keep, disperses them amongst the grounds and the gardens with a wave of his hand. To make merry and to make friends and to listen. To remember everything. Oberyn wanders with no direction but with purpose. Makes his way through the broad pathed gardens, smells the headiness of the drooping flowers blossoming under the eternal summer sun, still smells the incense from the brothel lingering behind his eyes. Stops at a low wall overlooking the bay below, watches the sway of the ships in the harbour and the docks. Finds the sails of his own ship.

He moves on again, deeper into the gardens. Passes his people as he walks, some of them already mingling, others drifting through. It is Daemon who joins him as he twists through a part of the gardens closest to the walls of the Keep. Falls into step beside him in silence for some time, and then tells him of a group ahead being entertained by one of the members of the King’s Council. The Lord of Whispers, they call him. Daemon tells him there is apparently not a secret in Westeros he does not know. That there are secrets beyond the Narrow Sea whispered in his ear as well. And Oberyn smiles at this and allows himself to be drawn towards it, lets Daemon slip away as he hears the cheer of a gathering, of tinkling cups and laughter. They are around a bend in the path, had been hidden by high hedges, on a higher level overlooking the wide promenade below. Less than fifty of them in all, lazing against stone chairs and cushions and beneath tents. Handsomely dressed servants carry decanters of dark purple wine and plates of lavish arrangements of berries and fruits and nuts.

Oberyn takes the length of the promenade slowly, and as he approaches the stone steps to the higher bank, a man breaks away from the crowd. He wears well cut silks, a dark grey which ripples amongst the brighter colours all around him, the pattern on them subtle and swirling. He shuffles to the top step and sweeps his arms out widely as Oberyn starts up them in welcome. Tucks them back into his own sleeves as Oberyn climbs.

“Prince Oberyn.” The man is short, his bald head gleaming under the heat of the afternoon sun. “You find us having something of a little garden party.”

“It seems I do.”

The guests nearby all laugh as a man in red finishes some story, wine sloshes in their cups and the tinkling sound of empty glasses makes a grating tune amongst the merriment. Oberyn watches them, watches the man before him, watches the way the leaves around them sway in the wind and the boys carrying jugs of wine bead sweat in the heat of the sun. The Lord of Whispers still waits for him at the top.

“Join us,” he says.

“Well,” Oberyn laughs. He does not feel like laughing. Climbs the stairs until he is no longer eye level with the host but above him. Sees the curiosity of the onlookers as they hear his accent, see his golden robes painted with suns glimmer. Whisper amongst themselves. “I can never say no to a party.”

The Lord of Whispers finally smiles. “I am Lord Varys.”

“It seems I need no introduction.”

“I imagine that must be the case for you everywhere you go.” Varys plucks a glass of wine from a passing tray and hands it to Oberyn. “It is my occupation to know a great many things. You arrived earlier than we were expecting you.”

“Dornish ships make the journey quickly.”

Varys is still smiling. He turns slightly, bobs and bows, just slightly. Holds an arm out to beckon Oberyn ahead. And they drift amongst the small gathering, share smiles and laughs with strangers. And his easy smile makes them think he does not notice the way they follow him, the way they stare at the proud suns on his robes, the orange of house Martell beneath, bright against his skin, open almost to his navel. They turn through the tents, and Oberyn finishes his wine. Picks out another. Varys stays by his side and chatters through it all. Gossips about his own guests and waits for Oberyn to return his secrets with secrets. Is patient through it all, but his hidden hands make Oberyn’s own twitch, and his greedy eyes make Oberyn talk only of things which do not matter.

“How are you enjoying the Capital, Prince Oberyn?”

Oberyn leans against the low wall of the garden ledge with his elbows. Presses his back against it. Drinks another sip of the wine. Weak, although it is so rich in colour. He thinks for a moment and then smiles with all his teeth. “It is exactly as I expected it.”

“I see.”

Below them, the promenade is mostly empty but for a trio of palace guards, walking along the path away from them. As Oberyn turns to look over it a girl rounds the corner closest to them, her dress almost too thick for the high summer of the Capital and a dull purple. She glances at the party on the ledge and away again very quickly, her face stony and pale. Not the skin of someone who has grown up in the summer sun.

“Sansa Stark,” Varys says conspiratorially.

Oberyn hums. “The last wolf of the North. I heard about what they did to her brother and her mother. That she married the Imp, Tyrion Lannister.”

The girl is tall for her age, and there are early lines around her eyes, stricken from grief. But she cannot be older than fifteen. Holds herself straight and her chin high, but Oberyn sees her eye almost twitches when the palace guards pass her. Sees her flinch when they are close enough that one of their white capes’ snaps against the skirts of her dress. And he sees the purple bloom around her cheek, fresh and angry, a scabbed cut at the centre of it.

“A wedding present from the King,” Varys says, following Oberyn’s eyes.

“For when they married off a child to a Lannister, or for her to wear to the King’s wedding?”

Varys pulls his hands from his sleeves and locks his fingers together, rests them over his stomach. He blows air out through his teeth in a sound like he’s affecting disapproval. Likes the chance at gossip. Oberyn sees the people flitting about them, waves of silk and laughter, and wonders how many are the famed little birds of the man at his side. “Oh, both I imagine.”

“And what of her husband, he does not tell his nephew to stop?”

“Certainly not.”

“And this boy is King.”

Varys lifts his thumbs from his fingers and shrugs. “He is.”

“A king who beats women and children and holds innocent people hostages. It would seem there is a grand tradition of the types of men to sit in the Iron Throne.”

Varys sips delicately at his own wine, and skin along his forehead creasing as he lifts his brow. “She has found a good friend in the Lady from across the Narrow Sea.”

“This Lady is from Pentos?”

Varys leans in closer to him. “Tywin Lannister would like more allied a little closer to the Targaryen girl who makes a claim to the Iron Throne. I’m sure you would know all about this. Although maybe Braavos would feel a little more familiar.”

“I have heard of her.” Oberyn looks away from Sansa for the first time, glances down at his companion, at his pale, watering eyes. Has not missed the threat against himself and his brother. At the knowledge of their actions against the Baratheon King. “The girl with the dragons.”

“That is what they say, my Prince.”

Oberyn hums. “And what does this Lady from Pentos gain from her friendship with the little wolf?”

“I would hazard to say they find comfort in knowing they are both going to be married into a den of lions.” Varys has a wavering smile, watering like his eyes. Oberyn looks away from him again. Leans his hand against the stone railing, warm under the sun, hot against his fingers so that it almost burns. “Kings Landing is full of girls who are married for the ambitions of others. I’m sure you would know all about that too, Prince Oberyn.”

Oberyn only wraps his fingers tighter around his cup. Lifts it to be refilled by the cup bearer with a grim smile. Varys watches him with closeness, follows the liquid as it drains steadily, a single gulp till empty. Offers Oberyn a small bowl of berries as he fills his cup again. Oberyn shakes his head and watches until Sansa Stark disappears around the corner of the garden path and is lost in the foliage.

.

Oberyn can feel the lightness of the drink still in his walk. Had not stayed much longer with Varys. Every time he looked up at the looming walls of the Keep above them had felt the feeling of being a child once again, looking up at a tall building in front of moving clouds, like it was going to topple down and crush him. He feels the night without sleep catching up to him in the wine. Has no slept enough to have drunk so much. Had not eaten yet that day. His heart aches for Ellaria, that she would be there to give him advice. To hold his hand.

Oberyn twists and turns further into the garden, away from the Red Keep. Further from the crowds of people in the dwindling sunlight, turning the world red as it sinks into the horizon, sinks beyond the sea. Distant sounds of laughter begin to sound like screams, like cries for help, warped amongst the trees. He tricks himself into thinking about what Elia might have sounded like as she died. That the desperate pleas for the lives of her children are held in the long memories of the trunks around him. He is not quite drunk, light enough to remember the tree struck by lightning on the road to Sunspear. The smell of it burning. His steps speed up as he moves past others, countless others without names or faces and their laughter edges at his skin, beneath his nails, and grits through his teeth. Finds himself deep in the gardens of the Keep, the sound of distant waves, of laughter somewhere beyond hedges, but he is alone. And he forces himself to stop moving. Concentrates on slowing his erratic breathing and the urge to pull his dagger from his belt. To fight away the shadow of his sister’s ghost, following him everywhere in the heat.

The light of the sun is blazing right before it sets. And in his stillness deep in the gardens he suddenly hears it. A soft sound, almost lost in the rustle of the leaves in the sea breeze and the water crashing against rock. And despite the thickness of the trees around him Oberyn realises he must have found his way to the edge of the gardens again. Can hear the swallowing rushing of water meeting water at the delta of Blackwater Rush. And above the sound of waves he can hear a song, high and light and carried on the air, just out of reach.

He moves before he knows what he is doing. Follows the sound of the song through the deepest part of the gardens, and finds himself in an almost maze. Hedges and trees and bushes. There is no path anymore, just worn tracks through the dirt, and he picks his way through them. Sometimes a trick of light through leaves leading him to a dead end, and other times twisting back on itself so he circles, and ends further from the singing than when he began. But like a man possessed he follows it. Finds a stone wall separating the wood beyond from the garden proper. Overgrown with climbing vines and leaves. He can hear the singing here most clearly, a sad and beautiful voice just beyond. He rests his hand against the wall and begins to follow it slowly along, his fingers bumping over dips in the stone and his rings catching against vines. Until his hand slips and plunges into leaves alone. So thick he missed the spot where the wall has a break in it. A hidden doorway, concealed in the hanging vines.

Oberyn stops before it, drops his arm back to his side. Watches the leaves dance slightly on the wind. Rustle like silk. The singer is quiet now, but no longer distant. He has to crouch slightly to clear the top of the arch.

He slips first his hand, his elbow, then his whole arm. Parts the tangle of green with his other hand and ducks beneath the stone. The air is cooler beyond the curtain of leaves, a small alcove. Taller inside so that he can stand straight. There is a small stone bench carved into one wall, the crumbling rock held together by the vines and blooming all over with fragrant white flowers. The smell of them light and sharp, not heady like the flowers of the groomed promenades of the main gardens. Enclosed all around him but for the arch behind him and another ahead, filtering light and more garden beyond. The forgotten room has a dragon carved into stone over the archway ahead.  

Oberyn makes his footsteps silent with practiced ease. Moves carefully. Inches forward and stops before his boots touch the reaching tips of the evening sun through the arch. The garden is small, surrounded all by walls and trees beyond those, and a little part of Oberyn realises that beyond the garden lies the godswood. At its centre there is a small bubbling fountain, not the type favoured by the Lannisters, but more of a trickle. The sound of a fresh stream. It is overgrown and filled with twisting plants and leaning trunks. Cluttered in its neglect. But Oberyn does not linger on those things for long.

There is a woman sitting on a low bench by the fountain. Her hands work steadily over a piece of silk, her needle rhythmic and deft, the catch of blue thread weaving in and out almost hypnotic. A lighter blue than the deep colour of her gown. She faces away from him, so Oberyn glimpses only just the roundness of her cheek through a thick curtain of red hair, dark and rich and in the dwindling light blazing like flames. And her voice. Quiet but echoing everywhere around him, through the garden and against the walls and filling the space of the alcove with song. Like the sound of dawn breaking a grey sky, lighting the darkness of the ocean. And beneath it the crashing of the waves against the shore. And his mother’s voice whispering in his ear of songbirds who are in love with the sun, who mourn the sunset, who sing for fading love.

Oberyn has to turn and press his back to the inside of the little hidden room, out of sight of the garden. He slides slowly down the wall until he is sitting against the cool ground, lays his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. And when his eyes are closed he cannot hear the sounds of Elia screaming, or the laughter of the people from the Keep. He can hear the sound of the ocean and the song filling his head and he can breathe. He pushes his feet to the ground and his elbows to his knees. The heels of his palms into his eyes and he feels drunker than he knows he is. Wishes he were in Sunspear so he could cry like the songbirds in mourning for his sister. He sits there until the last light winks over the walls of the garden and turns the world purple. Purple like the silk of the Stark girl’s dress. Like the bruise around her eye. And he thinks he will ask Daemon about her, about the little wolf, and thinks somehow at the same time that he does not wish to know. Until finally he feels steady enough to push himself to his feet and slip back through the hidden doorway and out into the world.

Oberyn finds himself in a deeper part of the gardens in the dusky purple light. The sound of waves is distant here, has turned to the rushing of water over stone, a river where the sea rushes towards the heart of Westeros. There are no people in this part of the gardens, more of a wilderness now, and he is glad for the chance of being alone. Of trying to clear the aching from his chest from the sound of the song. Still ringing in his ears. Is so distracted that the sound of voices does not stop him until he is almost upon them, just around the next bend. He presses himself to the trunk of the tree nearest him, not ready to see others. Not ready to smile easily at them and play at bravado.

He waits until they are gone before he finds his way back to the main gardens.

The light in Kings Landing lingers on into the night, and the Red Keep is dark and looming and the colour of blood in the long twilight.

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